


Scratch My Quidditch, Baby

by fojee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crack, M/M, Mpreg, Not Epilogue Compliant, Shotgun wedding (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 09:38:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19129414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fojee/pseuds/fojee
Summary: In which teenagers do what they do best.But really, it never would have happened if England hadn’t won the Quidditch Cup that year.





	Scratch My Quidditch, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> AU from book 5. The title doesn't really have anything to do with the story. I just couldn't resist.
> 
> Edit for warning: there will be a slightly cringe-y scene where a character contemplates abortion and is uh pressured against it. It made sense in the context of the wizarding world, but does not reflect my beliefs in real life. You do you guys. 
> 
> (Please feel free to suggest tags you think the fic needs)

It never would have happened if England hadn’t won the Quidditch Cup that year. 

There were whispers of war, but they remained whispers, especially with Umbridge enforcing her edicts down the students’ throats. And so even though a number of students were aware of the ideological rift that would soon tear them apart, they preferred to fill their heads with everyday worries, such as the pimple on their chin resisting Madame Pomfrey’s anti-spot solution, the Transfiguration exam they forgot to study for, their undying crush continuing to ignore their awkward wooing, and the miracle that occurred on some Quidditch Stadium three hundred miles from Hogwarts. 

Ron dragged a hormonally depressed Harry to the all-Houses celebration that night. “This only happens maybe once a century, Harry. Fred and George volunteered as bartenders, and entire swaths of purebloods promised to raid their parents’ cellars. You can’t miss a party this epic.”

It wasn’t officially sanctioned, meaning all the staff—barring Umbridge—knew about it, and pretended to be busy elsewhere, even helpfully dragging the toad with them. Harry imagined it would be the perfect time for Death Eaters to attack the castle in full strength, but he saw a group of seventh year Slytherins enthusiastically playing a drinking game that seemed to involve snogging each other, so maybe not. (Also, despite celebrating England’s win, the Scots and Irish were present. Because alcohol.)

The year started with the Sorting Hat singing a different tune. Something about Hogwarts unity. Nobody was really paying any attention. But Harry mused that maybe if the Sorting Hat could see the room now—with its non-existent eyes—then it would wholeheartedly approve. In a corner, students wearing different coloured-ties reenacted quidditch moves with transfigured buttons and pocket lint. Inter-house carousing and celebrating led to inter-house dancing led to inter-house something, something. Sparks were flying. 

Ron shoved a cup of fruit-flavoured firewhiskey in Harry’s hand, and he soon stopped caring.

—

Jagged pain pounded behind his eyeballs. For a second, Harry thought that he was under attack, and his hand instinctively reached for his wand, but it found someone else’s wand. Someone else’s thicker, warmer, and not-at-all-wooden wand.

“Ack!” He heard someone yelp, followed by a mumbled, “Bugger off.”

He opened his eyes to thin slits and turned his head just enough to see someone’s too-blond head on the pillow beside him. It had the familiar shape of his life-long sworn enemy. (Aside from He-Who-Liked-Anagrams.) 

He closed his eyes and turned away, and he would have screamed in denial, except he was suddenly too busy spewing.

—

Harry was safely ensconced among the Gryffindors in the Great Hall. Even so, he could feel Malfoy’s eyes on him, like wizard laser beams. He jammed another spoonful of porridge into his mouth and swallowed with difficulty. Most people had the decency to be quiet, but unfortunately, he shared the table with a bright and chipper Hermione Granger, who was just rubbing it in. 

“Herm,” Harry begged. “Voice.” He wasn’t up to full sentences yet. 

“Really, Harry” Hermione said waspishly. “I understand how people can get emotional over a national sport, but drinking to excess isn’t the most appropriate way to celebrate. _Especially_ since we’re still underage. And I heard someone was spiking the punch with illegal potions, so if you feel really bad you should get Madame Pomfrey to check you out.”

Harry aborted the nod as soon as he started to feel woozy. He wasn’t exactly listening. A fact that he will later regret.

Malfoy ambushed him in a corner after breakfast. The git probably had access to hangover potions to look as fresh as a daisy after last night. Harry glared at him resentfully, crossing his arms. “What do you want?” 

Malfoy pursed his lips. “I’m not sure how much you’ve had to drink last night…”

“I remember,” Harry muttered.

“Everything?” Malfoy asked, sounding genuinely curious that Harry stifled his instinct to lie.

“The important bits,” he said, then muttered under his breath. “But maybe I’ll obliviate myself.” 

“You don’t have to do that,” Malfoy interjected, shoulders stiff. “We can have a gentleman’s agreement.”

Harry wasn’t sure what that was, but he could hazard a guess. “So we never talk about it? Right. All settled then? I’m off to class.” And he walked away. 

He was conscious of Malfoy’s eyes on him, in particular, on a part of his anatomy that was still sore from last night’s debauchery. He was blushing now, but most of the school were roaming the hallways like zombies, so nobody noticed.

—

The epidemic started a couple of months after.

House-elves threatened to quit en masse when entire swaths of students came down with bad reactions to the typical English brekkie. While acting Headmaster Dolores Umbridge was calling for St. Mungos staff to floo in and quarantine the lot of them, Madam Pomfrey kept her head cool, casting diagnostic charms on a selection of patients across ages and genders. Even so, she had to fan herself a little when the results came out.

Thirty-seven teenage pregnancies, and fourteen of them male, plus a couple somewhere in between. As far as they could figure it out, someone mistook a very powerful fertility potion for alcohol and spiked the punch with it. 

Harry didn’t really know what Dumbledore’s plans were in the coming war. The man always seemed like he knew everything. But Harry was sure he couldn’t have prepared for this. 

There was a furore of howlers and the newspaper headlines were full of exclamation points. Harry grimaced at a stock photo of him from last year’s tournament. Now nobody would care about whether Voldemort had actually returned or not. They were too busy dealing with all these pregnancies. He rubbed the spot above his abdomen. He wished he had the luxury of not caring, too. But he had a target on his back. Or, he thought, smiling mirthlessly, on my forehead. 

The house-elves had changed the menu ever since word got out. Harry bit through the cucumber in his salad and his gaze hovered over the inhabitants of the table across. He looked away before he could catch anyone’s eyes. 

After dinner, he trudged back to the common room. Alone. Ron wasn’t speaking to him since he confessed who he slept with that night. And he couldn’t take Hermione’s looks of mingled horror and pity. But when he reached the portrait, Draco Malfoy was standing awkwardly beside it. 

“What are you doing here?” Harry hissed at him, looking over his shoulder to see if anyone was behind him. He turned back in relief. 

Malfoy’s gaze was icy and his hands clenched. “We need to talk.”

Harry walked past the portrait, forcing Malfoy to follow him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered. He only stopped walking after they had turned a few corners, into an area full of landscape paintings. 

But when Malfoy grabbed his arm, he wrenched it away on instinct, right hand reaching for his wand. 

“Don’t be stupid.”

Harry raised his chin. “Why? I’m sure your master would love it if you delivered me to him.”

Malfoy stilled. Deliberately, he unbuttoned a cuff and bared his arm. His unmarked arm. “You’ve seen a lot more skin than this, haven’t you, Potter?”

Harry flushed at the reminder. “That doesn’t prove anything and you know it.”

“That’s a separate matter. We need to talk about the baby.”

“Why?” Harry interrupted. “It’s none of your business.”

Malfoy gritted his teeth. “We have to get married before you start showing…”

“What?” Harry’s jaw dropped. “W-why?”

Surprise registered briefly on Malfoy’s face. “Because the ritual will protect the child,” he explained slowly as if to a dimwit. 

“There’s no way I’ll marry you,” Harry hissed and walked away. He pretended not to hear Malfoy’s murmur. 

“We’ll see about that.”

—

“I’m afraid it’s the best option we have right now, my boy.” Dumbledore looked down at him, and Harry grimaced at the twinkle behind those spectacles. “Marriage will accomplish several tasks at once. The first being, to strengthen the magics of protection around your unborn child.”

Dolores Umbridge had not survived the political ramifications of thirty-seven pregnancies under her watch. And Dumbledore was back in his position as Headmaster. Standing behind his shoulders were Harry’s head of house, and Snape, who looked like this was the last place he wanted to be. 

“We cannot discount the effect this will have on the Malfoys’ loyalties in the war. They cannot harm you while you carry their blood. The ritual magic would not let them.”

Harry shook his head in denial. “What if I don’t want to keep it?”

His question was met with silence and when he looked up, there was shock in the faces of the headmaster, Professor McGonagall, and Snape. 

It was Snape who cleared his throat and answered him. “Children are rare enough in our society that the mere idea of wilful termination is highly taboo. Please don’t mention it again.”

Harry scratched his head. “But if all they needed was some fertility potion…”

Snape interrupted his train of thought. “The potion might ensure conception, but it does not guarantee that the child will make it to term. They had to restrict it in the end. Repeated use often resulted in the bearer’s death. I don’t know how a student could have gotten their hands on one,” he added with a growl. 

Harry’s hands had crept to his stomach instinctively. “My baby’s in danger?” His voice broke at the end. 

Dumbledore smiled kindly at him. “Your youth and your magic are in your favour, dear boy. But marriage is still the safest option.”

Harry bit his lip, meeting Professor McGonagall’s eyes. Her face was stiff with disapproval, but she nodded at him, confirming what the others said. 

“Alright.” Harry gave in.

—

He and Ron made up before the wedding. But his best friend was still unhappy about it.

“I still can’t believe it,” Ron muttered. “ _Malfoy_ of all people.”

“Shut up, Ron.” Hermione was trying her best to browbeat them into studying but she was about ready to give up. “The real miracle is that you didn’t get anyone pregnant.”

Ron made moon eyes in Hermione’s direction but she didn’t notice, and Harry pretended not to. 

“Well, think how _I’m_ feeling right now,” Harry grumbled. That morning, he had received an invitation to his own wedding. It was beautifully written in green ink against cream and he had stared down at it in horror. 

There were other weddings, of course. Alliances in the wizarding world were in disarray as feuds several generations long had to be set aside, and marriage contracts negotiated. (He left those up to Sirius, who wasn’t happy about the family Harry was marrying into, but since Sirius was _related_ to them, he didn’t have a leg to stand on.) So Harry had received twenty-two invitations to other people’s weddings, but receiving one to his own was just beyond surreal. 

The headmaster had enforced a rule that all weddings would take place after exams. This pleased Hermione and most of the Ravenclaws, and the seventh years, but little else. 

“Where will it be held?” Hermione asked, trying to be supportive, even as she underlined something in her notes. 

Before Harry could re-examine the invitation, Ron answered for him. “There’s only so many places you can hold a wizarding wedding safely, so it’s either at the Malfoy Manor or Grimmauld Place.”

“Gee, which would be worse?” Harry murmured under his breath, which made Ron snicker. 

“Dumbledore should have just held a mass wedding here,” Hermione said. “That would be the most efficient and least disruptive way to do it, instead of having to schedule the next few months to attend so many weddings. I mean, imagine how many dress robes you’d need.”

“Purebloods probably hate anything that’s mass-produced,” Harry suggested. “Too muggle for them.”

“Too logical, you mean,” Hermione complained. 

Ron’s face turned white. “Merlin! I need new dress robes.” 

Harry shrugged. “You can have mine.” Ron frowned at the implied charity so Harry continued hastily. “I’m pretty sure Malfoy is sending me something to wear.” He gestured at the invitation. “He already planned everything else.”

Hermione capped her ink bottle and laid down her quill. “What _I_ want to know is if I’m invited at all. And I hope Sirius made provisions for the safety of your muggleborn friend while in your future husband’s home.” Her smile was sharp.

Harry bit his lip and promised, “I’ll… find out.”

—

Between the baby and the wedding, it was no wonder Harry’s dreams were a mess. Snape tried to continue his occlumency lessons but Harry just could not concentrate. 

Finally, the man gave up. “If the Dark Lord entered your brain right now, he would only pick up on your panic anyway.”

Harry glared at him, but he was secretly relieved. The lessons gave him a headache, and he had a feeling his baby doesn’t like them either. 

So he endured dreams of some kind of corridor filled with glass balls, and nightmares about Sirius. 

Sirius who had been _pardoned_ somehow after Lucius Malfoy pulled some strings. Apparently that was part of the negotiations. 

Harry often woke up sweaty and with a pounding heart, but Sirius gave him a mirror and they talked through it most nights. Harry tuned out the words as Sirius gave him updates to the contract negotiation, and just listened to the soothing cadence of his godfather’s voice. 

Sirius sounded so… happy. 

—

Between the exams and dozens of wedding preparations, tensions were at an all-time high. There were class notes, catalogues and cloth samples all over the common room, and some witches got into hair-pulling fights over dress designs. Or borrowed notes. 

Harry kept his nose in his textbook and thanked all the gods that he didn’t have to do anything but show up to his wedding. Malfoy did send him dress robes in deep blue trimmed with silver. And Hermione got her promise of safe passage tucked in her invitation. 

They hadn’t talked at all. But vials of nutrient potion started showing up on his table during mealtimes and he recognized the handwriting on the accompanying instructions. They matched the calligraphy on the invitations. So Harry drank them down dutifully. They tasted of wildflowers with a hint of chalk. 

—

With Voldemort’s return casting a long shadow over things—and with Umbridge going power-mad—classes were hard enough to sit through. Now, however, Harry’s attention wandered for an entirely different reason. 

“Should we continue the DA meetings?” Hermione asked him after a Defence class that was a rehash of earlier lessons, given by Ministry workers in rotation. 

Harry chewed the inside of his cheek. “I don’t think I can participate as much as I used to. But we have some members that still need to work on their skills.” Apparently, pregnant witches or wizards were vulnerable to spell accidents, so some of their lessons were redone to focus more on theory than practicals. It made the classes frustrating for people like Harry and Ron. 

“Maybe we can get more people to join. Now that it’s not illegal anymore,” Neville chimed in from behind them. 

“That’s a great idea,” Harry said, turning his head a little. “We could get some teachers in on it, too.”

Hermione paged through a sheaf of notes she kept from past DA meetings. “I could try writing a proposal, but Harry, you can’t even sit in as an observer. Especially not with the kind of spells we’re working on. We might need more instructors from the other years.”

Harry’s mouth curled up. “Or the other houses. I bet the Slytherins can teach us a lot of advanced spells.”

Ron shook his head. “You don’t need to be Trelawney to foretell that disaster.”

Harry clapped a hand on his best friend’s shoulder. “Hey, we’ve got to start somewhere.”

“Yes, Ron,” Hermione agreed. “Whatever our allegiances, war is coming. Better that we fight here and now under somewhat controlled conditions. Maybe we could even see what the Slytherins are capable of.”

“Is war coming?” Ron asked idly. Hermione and Harry turned to gape at him. Ron scratched his head. “I mean, I know _he’s_ back so you’re still in danger, but you guys don’t seem to understand what this pregnancy thing means for the Wizarding world.”

Hermione crossed her arms at the implied criticism. “Why don’t you enlighten us.”

“The majority of the pregnancies are pureblood families,” Ron reminded them. “The only reason the war started in the first place was because pureblood numbers were dwindling in proportion to muggleborn. People won’t buy into that propaganda if they feel less threatened about being overrun by outsiders. And the new alliances means traditionally feuding groups will now be connected, even if it’s only Lord so-and-so’s nephew with Lady so-and-so’s cousin’s granddaughter. They would have more incentive to protect each other. 

“Right now nobody believes _he’s_ back. But that’s because nobody _cares_ ,” Ron finished. 

“But those who were Death Eaters before would still follow Voldemort,” Hermione pointed out. 

“Most of them were killed in the first war. You saw how many people showed up the night he came back.” Ron nodded to Harry, who nodded back. “It didn’t sound like much, so he badly needs to recruit. A small group is still dangerous but I doubt they’ll be able to start a war this time around.”

“He has enough people to go after me,” Harry murmured. 

“But now the Malfoys are legally bound to protect you,” Ron said. “Remember what the hat sang? Invite the Slytherins, by all means. If we do it right, we might be able to _prevent_ war.”

Hermione looked deep in thought. And Harry, too. “Can you guys go ahead after class? There’s an overdue conversation I have to have.”

Ron turned bright red, guessing who he wanted to talk to. “Why don’t you ask your betrothed to bring his friends to sit in on the next meeting? I’m sure he would like that.” Harry eyed his friend, but Ron just shrugged at him. “They’re more likely to come if the invitation was from you. And Malfoy’s gonna be your family, Harry.”

All through potions, which they shared with the Slytherins, Harry let that word float in his head. Family. He had always wanted a family like Ron’s. A family of his own. Now Sirius was free. And he would have a child of his own… and Draco Malfoy would be _family_. Strange that he could even contemplate it. 

—

Catching Malfoy at the end of class was a matter of making eye contact. Harry raised his eyebrows and hoped it would convey that he needed to talk. The Slytherins were usually a solid wall of interference, but they parted to let him through.

Harry winced inwardly. He wasn’t exactly hiding it, but it was still disquieting to realize how many people _knew_. He wondered how many of them received invitations to _his_ wedding.

“Is there anything you need, Harry?” Malfoy asked, voice pitched low, although everybody in the room heard him. 

Harry cleared his throat. “I was wondering if we could have a private conversation.” Emphasis on private. 

Malfoy inclined his head and led him to an empty classroom. Harry felt the spot between his shoulders itch. He took a deep breath. 

But Malfoy got there first. “How are you feeling?” There was an awkward expression on his face. 

Harry had to read _hard_ between the lines to get that. “Are you asking me if I’m getting morning sickness?”

Malfoy flinched, which made Harry snort. Ron had enlightened him on some aspects of pregnancy etiquette—supposedly, it was bloody rude to talk about the pregnant person’s body, and bodily fluids in particular—but Ron did it in a way that Harry failed to take seriously. “I’m fine. It’s not so bad,” he said, trying for diplomacy. “The potions help.”

Malfoy folded his hands. “Ah.”

Harry looked down at his own feet. “We haven’t really talked about how things will be… _after_.” 

“The contract is very thorough,” Malfoy assured him.

Harry sighed. “I’m sure Sirius is doing a good job. But. I’m more concerned about your thoughts on all this.” He waved at the air between them.

Malfoy’s back went stiff. “We both know that night was…”

“Alcohol-induced?” Harry finished for him.

“It may not be what we both planned, but I will do my duty,” Malfoy said with his precise accent.

“Duty’s important,” Harry said flatly. He had his answer and turned to go, but Ron’s words came back to him and he said over his shoulder. “By the way, we’re opening up the DA to everyone not currently expecting. I would appreciate it if you came and helped out in my stead. Bring your friends, too.”

“That would be acceptable,” Malfoy said.

“Great. I’ll owl you the date and time.” Harry left without another word.

Malfoy watched him leave. His mouth was turned down. Did he just make another mistake?

—

So much for family. 

Harry stared up at the canopy of his bed. He rubbed at the little swell on his stomach, which his school robes thankfully disguised. “At least I’ll have you.” He closed his eyes, remembering his mother’s voice just before Voldemort killed her. “And you’ll have me. Just let me survive.”

It felt like a prayer.

—

When Sirius Black presented him with the completed contract, Harry stared at the thick roll of parchment in horror. “Can’t you just… give me the highlights?”

Hermione slapped his arm—lightly! And grabbed the roll. “I’ll go through it and give you a summary.”

“Wait,” Harry said. “Just tell me what happens after the wedding.”

Sirius ruffled his godson’s hair. “You’ll stay within the wards of the Malfoy Manor until the child is born, then you can renegotiate if you’d rather live elsewhere. I made sure any conflict of loyalties was taken into consideration.”

Harry squinted at Sirius. It wasn’t like him to speak in euphemisms. “You mean they have to protect me if… _when_ Voldemort attacks. Will the protection continue after I’ve given birth? Since we both know what they’re really concerned about.”

Hermione elbowed Ron, who announced that he was making a food run. “Any special cravings, Harry? I heard Mikaela from seventh year requested a squid and squash pasta.”

Sirius jumped at the chance to go with him. He was finally free to walk around anywhere and he had missed Hogwarts, so he was relishing every second.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at Harry. “You might as well get started on your homework, Harry Potter.”

Harry stuck out his tongue at her, but he did grab his book bag to rummage through it for his notes. 

—

Wizarding weddings were weird.

Okay. Admittedly, Harry had never attended a muggle wedding either, so he didn’t really know what to expect. 

He and Malfoy were dressed in robes of complementary colours, standing in the middle of the Great Hall of Malfoy Manor. There wasn’t any single officiant, but a panel of them standing like judges in front of them. Harry had to listen to some monotonous speech in Latin while a piece of golden ribbon was tying itself into a complicated knot as it bound their clasped hands together. He had his back to the crowd, which left him tense and jittery. Malfoy’s hand squeezed his, but he didn’t dare turn to catch the other wizard’s eye.

And then he felt it: a sharp pain in his forehead, and Voldemort’s satisfaction rising in his throat. Harry turned around, free hand going for his wand. 

A man in nondescript clothing and dun-coloured hair raised his wand. _Polyjuice_ , Harry had enough time to think before he reacted. 

The green light of the killing curse met the red of his stunner. Their wands connected like it did that night at the graveyard. 

Beside him, Draco had also grabbed at his wand, but there was a danger in disrupting such spells, and Harry was especially vulnerable in his current state. 

Draco’s gaze swept the crowd. But among the panicked guests, he couldn’t find his own father. The thought of that betrayal dropped like a stone in his stomach. 

And then he spied Great Aunt Mildred’s face in the front row twisting and transforming into Aunt Bellatrix. She bared her teeth at him, before aiming her wand at Harry’s stomach.

 _No!_ Draco must have shouted it, but he couldn’t hear a word above the pounding of his own heart. He stepped forward, trying to intercept his mad aunt’s killing curse. 

Harry didn’t have the attention to spare to the chaos around them. His eyes were locked with Voldemort’s, as was his wand. But still, he felt Draco moving towards him, and from the corner of his eye, the wash of green that carried with it the promise of death.

There was a movement to turn a stunner into a shield spell. (A shield spell was useless of course, but instinct moved him.) It was like moving his arm through mud. He twisted his wrist, overloading his wand with magic that felt like his and not his. The deadlock between him and Voldemort broke, just as the second Avada reached them. 

Harry felt power explode out of him. A bright light washed over him, bright yellow tinged with red, and warm, like a phoenix had burst into flames. 

He felt his wand crack in his hand. 

And then nothing but darkness.

—

There weren’t as many Death Eaters found on the grounds as they expected. There weren’t as many casualties either, although they never did find Great Aunt Mildred’s body. Instead, Draco found his father by the manor gates. Dead, with no mark upon him, though a spell revealed traces of the Imperio spell used upon him. Draco and his mother buried him in the family crypt. 

“I’m sorry for doubting you, father,” Draco murmured as he lay a chrysanthemum into the coffin. 

—

Voldemort’s body was photographed by every major newspaper in the continent, before being burned at a phoenix-instigated pyre. Dumbledore thought it quite apt. 

Harry Potter woke up three days after. His wand had been broken beyond repair, it’s core obliterated in the unknown spell he had cast. Yet he broke a pane of glass and tore two paintings into strips wandlessly, before the mediwitch could reassure him that Voldemort had perished. And that his child still lived.

Even then, he only calmed enough to go back to sleep after Draco appeared at his side, holding Harry’s hand betwixt his own palms. 

—

Harry didn’t ask about his father, but came to pay his respects at Lucius’ grave. Draco was grateful. But as Harry bent to lay a flower basket at the stone marker, it was to a different person that he spoke. “Your line dies with you, Tom. Nobody will mourn you.” That was revenge enough. 

Harry was still mending from the depletion of his magical core, but the mediwitch said he needed some movement, so after the grave visit, he walked slowly around the grounds of Malfoy Manor, arm tucked in Draco’s elbow. Their position would have irritated him at any other time, but he was too tired to care.

“Do you still consider this a duty?” Harry asked him abruptly. Even after what had happened, he still needed to hear the words. 

“Do you want me to lie and say I am madly in love with you?” Draco sounded tired.

The gardens weren’t as perfect. The grass was too long, and the roses were a tad overgrown and slightly wilted. But the breeze carried with it the scent of sunshine.

He didn’t really notice the movement in the grass, until Draco raised his hand, wand at ready.

“It’s okay,” Harry said, nudging a toe forward. _“Hello, little one.”_

A blunt shaped head emerged. It was a snake, light green and a pattern of blue diamonds down its back. _Hello, Speaker._

Harry asked after its rock and its supper, before watching it slither away. He was aware that Draco had stiffened at the first word in parseltongue, so he pulled his arm away and took a step back. “Problem?” He asked softly.

Draco’s eyes were darker than usual. It took Harry a second to recognize the expression. He took another step back. “I’m as big as a whale, you idiot!” It wasn’t quite true, but he was feeling self-conscious as his bump grew bigger almost by the minute. 

Draco took two steps forward, cradled Harry’s head in his hands, and kissed him senseless.

The mechanics were a little complicated, but they managed.

For the rest of the day, Harry smelled of sunshine, and grass, and utter satisfaction.

—

Months later, their son was born with Harry’s eyes and Draco’s colouring. And a flame-shaped birthmark in the middle of his right palm.

All was well. 

At least, that was the general sentiment of the Wizarding World as more babies were born, as Aurors fought the last few Death Eaters in skirmishes and won, or they surrendered and were granted pardons, as the Ministry quietly reorganized itself according to new alliances. 

Harry was too busy discovering the dubious joys of fatherhood to pay attention. Young Scorpius—the name wasn’t _his_ idea, but it was hard to say no to Madame Malfoy—wasn’t particularly fussy. But strange magic swirled around him. 

Harry took him for a walk around the grounds one afternoon, and discovered four kneazles following him and his enchanted bassinet around. A family of snidgets started roosting on a branch closest to the nursery. They liked to fly inside his window and hover over his crib.

“All he needs is a fairy godmother, and he can wear glass slippers and go to the ball,” Harry said one night over dinner. Hermione and Ron and Sirius had been invited, so it was a little less dignified than the typical Malfoy meal. 

Hermione started giggling at his comment, though everyone else looked baffled. 

Harry took out his new wand. It had a different core, but it felt right in his hands. He pointed it at one of the pumpkins decorating the table, and turned it into a tiny carriage, bright orange, with space enough for a baby.

Scorpius gurgled happily in his new toy, while Hermione tried to catch her breath long enough to explain the joke.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Muggles,” he murmured under his breath. 

Harry kicked his shin, then smiled sweetly, until Draco flushed. 

On their next date night, Harry took him to a movie theatre he had rented out especially to show the old film. Draco suggested this Disney fellow might have been a wizard. And Harry gave him a blow-job in the bathrooms. (After a few scourgify spells. Draco had Standards.) 

END

**Author's Note:**

> I have been sitting on this story a while, hoping I will magically figure out a way to improve it. Sorry, this is as good as it gets.


End file.
